


"Paid"

by Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Additional Warnings Apply, F/F, F/M, M/M, Molestation, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John enjoy drinks at a pub with their married neighbors (a female couple). When an upsetting situation arises, John settles an old score.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Paid"

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Like a House on Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/274005) by [lawatsonholmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawatsonholmes/pseuds/lawatsonholmes). 



> Other Characters: Mrs. Turner’s married ones (the ones featured in “Like a House on Fire” by lawatsonholmes).

Sherlock had once described John Watson as a man with nerves of steel. 

If anything, that was an understatement.  He had seen John project an image of total calm even when death itself seemed little more than a few seconds away.  

He’d seen John withstand physical stress, emotional abuse, even complete and utter psychological upheaval. Through it all, John was still John. Rather, John was, to put it a bit more accurately, still.

There were exceptions to this rule, of course. Sherlock’s safety was one of them. 

The other involved women or children.

A psychotherapist would probably assume John’s sensitivity about them stemmed from atrocities he’d witnessed in Afghanistan. Soldiers often see things they don’t know how to process. Sherlock, though, knew it must have come from sometime earlier.

He’d seen it in John from the beginning.  The expression on John’s face when they first walked in to find Jennifer Wilson’s pink-clad corpse face down on the floor. Later, in John’s reaction to hearing of her stillborn daughter. 

Then there were the women pressed into service as Moriarty’s human time-bombs.

_“Try to remember there’s a woman here who might die, Sherlock….”_

_“Sherlock, how long have you known? You’ve left that old woman there this whole time….”_

And then there was the obvious pain and distress on John’s face when the pink phone began counting down in the voice of a child.

Tonight, though, John had been in wonderful spirits. It was a birthday celebration for Mrs. Hudson, just a few close friends at the pub. Mrs. Turner had joined them, and so had the “Married Ones” from next door - two women about Sherlock’s age who obviously adored each other (and had quite open admiration for John, as well). Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner had kissed everyone goodbye and called it an evening, but John was in no hurry end the banter he’d been sharing with his attractive neighbours.

“How do you possibly get accurate pulse readings on your patients, Doctor Watson?” the taller blonde woman asked. “My heart rate went up just watching you fetch our drinks.”

“Imagine him in his white coat,  _mi amor_ ,” her petite, Spanish-born wife remarked.

The blonde woman licked her lips. “You know, I do believe I’m due for a full physical quite soon.”

John’s ears were decidedly pinker, but his laughter was genuine and relaxed. Sherlock enjoyed having the women to distract him; it was rare that he could observe this side of John outside the confines of their flat.

Sherlock noticed the change in John’s demeanor a half-second after he saw the same change in the blonde neighbour.  Her laughing eyes had taken on a brief expression of panic, and her face had become pained. Quickly, she looked in another direction and forced a smile.  As she raised her drink to her lips, her hand was less steady than it had been before.

John turned his head to give the room a quick scan. Nothing appeared different.

“Are you alright? What’s happened?” he asked in a low voice.

“ _Preciosa_?” the doe-eyed brunette put her hand on her wife’s arm.

Another forced smile. “No, no. I’m fine. No worries. The drink must be catching up with me.”  Tears were welling in the corners of her eyes, and she was swallowing hard. She redoubled her efforts and attempted a broader smile. “You were going to tell us the story behind that three a.m. violin concerto in the hall last week?”

Sherlock had followed her line of sight and spotted the cause. A large man, roughly 60 years old, still fairly muscular and broad-shouldered despite the paunch and the slight stooping that had come with age. He had obviously arrived alone and did not frequent the pub, judging by his closed expression and the time it took for him to decide on his drink. Indentation on the left-hand ring finger, but no change in skin color. Married more than once, regular concurrent affairs, by all indications.

John cleared his throat. “Oh, um.. Right. I did promise that one, didn’t -“

“How old were you?” Sherlock interrupted, fixing their blonde neighbour with his piercing verdigris eyes.  

“What?” John stammered.

Sherlock ignored him.  ”Fourteen? Fifteen?”

The woman dropped her eyes to the table. A teardrop rolled down one cheek. She didn’t reply.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” John asked in a low, serious voice.

“I imagine it happened repeatedly, over the course of several months to a year. Living with you, perhaps engaged to your mother? No doubt he threatened to leave her if you didn’t comply.”

The woman wiped her eyes. “Please stop,” she said in a hushed voice. “I can’t let this…. I can’t cry…here..”  Her wife put a protective arm around her and pulled her close.

John’s hands had clenched into fists, and the muscles were working along his jawline.  He turned and looked around again. “Which one?”

“Please. Really.” the blonde woman continued, trying to muster all the control and bravery she possessed.  ”I think the two of us should head home, anyway. Would you mind to walk with us part of the way?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. John studied his gaze and followed it to the muscular older man at the bar.

He took his neighbor’s hand and squeezed it. “We’ll walk you both home. I’ll just go settle the bill and be right back.”  He caught Sherlock’s eye for a fraction of a second before getting up.

Sherlock began to gather the empty glasses and move them to the far side of the table.

Seconds later, a loud, unfamiliar voice rang out from the bar.

“Oi! Mind yer elbows, son. Runt like you should know better, eh?” The outburst was was punctuated by derisive laughter. “Nobody teach you manners at school?”

John smiled up - rather far up - at the large man. “No, they didn’t, as it turns out. Perhaps you’d like to try?”

The other man snorted a laugh and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. He faced John and squared back his broad shoulders.  ”Hmph. Not worth my time.”

“Oh, I might just surprise you.” John retorted.

The bigger moved closer and grasped John’s upper arm.

It was the last thing he remembered consciously doing before he found himself kneeling on the floor, bent backwards, with blinding pain shooting through his arms, back, and shoulders. John’s voice spoke to him quietly from right behind his ear.

“You know, I’ve met your kind before. Growing up, there was a bloke used to bother the schoolgirls on their way home.” The bigger man’s heart was pounding and sweat had formed along his forehead. “Of course he was just an amateur, wasn’t he?” John twisted the large man’s arm harder and heard a groan of pain. “You, on the other hand… well, I’m sure my friend is just one of dozens for you. D’you see her, there? The blonde next to the lovely little brunette?”  He increased the pressure. “Answer me, please.”

The man gasped out a reply. “Y- yes.”

“Funny, I also met someone like you in the war a little while back. A local who fancied himself a bit of a warlord; he liked to pay visits to his tenants’ young daughters in exchange for protecting their families. Would you like to know where he is now? Hmm?”  He punctuated the question with another agonizing twist of the other man’s hyperextended arm. “He’s buried underneath the road about ten miles from the town.”

A crowd was already gathering, not sure what, if anything, to do about the scene playing out in the centre of the pub.

“Now. You’re going to crawl over to that table on your hands and knees. You’re going to apologise. Then you’re going to crawl out of this pub and hope I never find out your name or where you live. Do you understand everything I’ve told you?”

The man could only nod in assent.

“Go on, then.”

All eyes watched as the man crawled, haltingly, over to Sherlock’s table. 

“That’s close enough. Now say it. And keep your eyes on the floor.”

The man kept his head down. “I’m..I’m sorry..” he murmured in a strained voice.

“Once more, please. Loud enough for all of us,” John commanded.

The bent man took a deep, painful breath. “I’m very sorry,” he repeated.

John looked at his neighbour. Tears were falling freely down her cheeks, and her lips were pressed tightly shut. She was holding her wife’s hands and doing her best not to let her trembling show. She looked up at John and nodded.

“Right,” John said. “Now get the hell out of here. If I hear you’ve been back, or anywhere nearby, then I  _will_  find you. Am I perfectly clear?”

The man bobbed his head in acknowledgement. Slowly, painfully he continued on all fours, past the table, past the feet of silent, astonished onlookers, and out the door.

****

Back at the flat, John finished toweling off from his shower. The scar from his war wound stood out against the flush on his still-warm skin.

He heard a voice from the doorway: “I think our neighbour will have fewer nightmares, now, John.”

John turned and met Sherlock’s eyes. 

“I’ve often heard her get up in the small hours. Open doors, walk into their sitting room. That is usually where she goes if she has to weep, it seems.”

John swallowed. “Ah. I didn’t know that.” He looked away for a moment, then continued drying off.

“I was quite proud of you tonight. As I often am, I might add.” Sherlock laid a hand on John’s arm.

John smiled grimly.

“Her wife is quite thankful as well. She asked me to do something in particular for her.”

“And that was?” John looked back up.

“This,” he answered, and kissed him gently.

**Author's Note:**

> The female character's backstory described by Sherlock is my own, but the resolution is the one I wish I'd had.


End file.
